


Bloodlust

by serenitysolstice



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 03:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysolstice/pseuds/serenitysolstice





	Bloodlust

**1684**  
The streets of Paris were cruel this time of year. Coming to France in early January, it was a miracle she hadn’t already frozen to death. She’d have laughed at herself had she the energy to spare. Who even believed in miracles these days?

The girl curled further into herself, her long, tattered dress doing little to stop the damp cobbled road from chilling her to the core. The light around her had been fading for the last hour or so, and as the last remains of cloud-diffused sunlight faded away, she fought against the urge to sneeze, to cough, to do anything except lay here and wait for the baker to pull up in the morning with his horse and cart, and throw her the last few scraps of bread. A fine mess she’d gotten herself into, her mother’s voice scolded her, even now.

Typical of her.

She shrank further against the pile of logs that leant against the stone house, shrank back against the night’s wind. Matted black hair clung to the sweat that beaded her forehead as she trembled. Her head throbbed, and she was positive that, had there been anything in her stomach, she’d have left it somewhere along the street.

So this was how she died. Filthy, cold, feverish - and the daughter of a nobleman. Despite everything, the hot tears fell unbidden. She choked back a sob, then froze as something moved in the alleyway ahead of her. The boots echoed against the stones, heavy, slow. Deliberate. She held her breath until the footsteps passed her by. Exhaling as softly as she dared, she moved to wipe away the tears that had combined with the mucus already oozing from her nose. Her elbow slammed into the wood beside her, sending the precarious pile tumbling.

The hand was around her throat in seconds, too fast for the girl to fight back, to scream, to do anything at all. She saw his face for a second, only a second, but still, he burned in her mind as though she were staring at a lit fireplace.

Then the sharp pinch at her neck tore a scream from her throat.

The world around her pulsed in and out of existence. She was aware of hitting the floor, of a snarl, of hands burning her icy skin where they brushed her arm, her neck. Then. Nothing.

She was being branded. The thought tore her from her slumber, the burning unspecific but intense. Her arms strapped to two posts, stripped of all but a tight bodice of leather. A young man with sad eyes watched her from the furnace just a meter from her prison.

She took the world in idly, the way a mother might watch her children playing in a field. Somewhere, she was sure, was pain, was burning, was a world filled with sensation she was not equipped to handle. But, now, she was lighter than she’d been since England. Her head fizzed pleasantly, as though she had drank too much wine at her father’s birthday celebration. The memory warmed her; the dances, the fine food, the music whispering through the air as she ran off from the house, how Chandra’s eyes had glowed in the moonlight. Her head lulled forwards as she was pulled from consciousness once more.

She came to suddenly, head pounding, and all but poured the contents of her stomach over the side of her bed. She coughed, wiped her face with a shaking hand, and threw herself back onto the damp sheets. Her shoulder throbbed - her head still too heavy to determine which one pulsed in time with her heart beat and the thudding behind her eyes. The nausea fading, she dared to open her eyes and glance around the strange room.

"What is your name?" A low voice startled her. The accent was rich, though she couldn't place it. The sound came from the fireplace, a gentle glow that didn't aggrivate her headache any further, for which she was immensely greatful.  
"Who are you?" She challenged, the words rasping and grating, not at all the strong sense of authority that had been her intent. The man rose slowly, and approached her bed. His pale face was thin, like he had not eaten in months, his eyes cold. She recoiled.  
"My name is Jaques Durand." He smiled, his teeth a flash of white against the darkening room. "That is not the name I was born with, but that no longer matters. I am very far from home." She shifted uncomfortably, a kernal of Jacques' words hitting her harder than she'd have liked. There was something strange about the man, something dark. She ignored the pain across her shoulder, and the desire to ask every question her mouth burned with. "You do not speak. Why?" She shrugged.  
"You must forgive me, Sir. Only I have been...rather out of luck, lately. And current circumstances are odd, to say the least." He nodded, like she had confirmed something for him. He sat beside her bed, in a chair she had not noticed before, and began to talk. He wove her a tale of spurned love, of estranged family, of fleeing a country he had loved with all his heart. Of homelessness, of begging, of eventually laying down in a ditch by a river and waiting for death. Of a kindly stranger finding him, taking him in, and nursing him back to health. He spoke of demons, of a second life, of disappearing into shadows and the instinctive trust of everyone he met. She was enraptured, heartbroken and horrified by the man at every turn. Had she been able to move, no doubt she would have ran when Jaques spoke of feasting, but she could not, and so was forced to hear him finish.

When he had, she felt a yearning inside her that filled her with shame. She had been stripped of so much; was it so wrong to want to take something back? To carve a niche for herself? Power and wealth and _fear_ \- she remembered the fear in their eyes, she could still feel it burning against her back. Then she remembered the current burning in her back, the brand that a young man, different to the one in front of her, and different again from the one who had attacked her in the alley. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the hot metal melting her skin away, carving its mark onto her body.  
"The mark. On my shoulder." There was an urgancy to her voice that she didn't try to supress. "What is it for?"  
"Ah." Jacques sighed. "Yes. The symbol you bear is called the Luate. It means _student_ in Romanian - where, as far as I know, the first of us came from. Someone older, and more experienced than you has decided to take you under their wing, as it were. We need lessons, control, normalcy. A youngling struggles to control himself properly, and ends up dead in a month."  
"Excuse me, just one moment. Us? Is that- am I- What happened?" Jacques' voice softened, and he laid a cool hand on her arm.  
"I'm sorry." He said. "I truly am sorry." She threw him off, getting out of the bed and backing away from him.  
"No." She said, throwing herself against a wall. She barely registered the throb of her aggitated _luate_. "No, I can't be...I'm not...I'm not a demon!" She didn't remember sinking to the floor, but preferred it immediately, so she wrapped her arms around her knees and fought the sobs choking her throat. "I'm not." She whispered. "I'm not. I'm not." A hand touched her shoulder, gentle, soothing. Her whole body went cold, she was surrounded by the cold, she was suffocating in the cold and the dark, and alone. She couldn't see, couldn't move. She screamed.


End file.
